“Sucks to be you, huh?” Ty remarked, that smirk begging to be kicked off his ugly mug.
“Don’t push—”
A shrill bell drowned the rest of his sentence. He noticed the club immediately began to fill with patrons, all of them dressed like the fashion slaves they were. He spotted staff milling about the place, behind the bar, amongst the thin but demanding crowd. Happened fast too. Were these folks waiting behind doors or what?
Ty drew near, licked his bottom lip, which he kept tucked behind his teeth. “Maybe it’s not your girl’s cherry ass I’ll get to fuck tonight but yours.”
Before Archer could reply—and fuck if he had a pile ready with the jerk’s name on it, in big bold letters and glitter too—Ty’s hand shot out with the speed of a striking snake and gripped him by the front of his pants. Another inch and he would’ve screamed like a woman at a male revue show! And women could scream at those shows. But Archer had twisted his hip at the last possible moment and the thug only got fabric.
That’s Turkish silk, you dickwad!
Archer had had just about enough. Today was definitely a bad day. He’d had his chest taped by a smart-ass chick, his balls squeezed by that jerk and now this.
I fucking think not!
With a subtle flick of his hand, he reversed Ty’s grip, effectively bent the guy’s wrist sideways. The technique—perfectly executed, not bad for a guy who hadn’t practiced steadily in a few years—broke his hold on Archer’s pants.
“Be careful where you stick your dick, man, some holes have teeth.”
“Not when I’m done with them,” Ty snarled.
His face barely a couple of inches away, Archer was sure everyone in Joan’s team could hear both men’s breathing and the testosterone dripping. He parted his suit jacket, clearly intending for Archer to see the butt of his gun sticking out underneath his arm.
“That sure is a big gun you have,” Archer snarled under his breath. “Compensating for something?”
Ty’s face went blank for a second then a mean smile pulled it tight. “I was gonna be gentle with you, but I think I’ll just fuck some respect into you. Maybe loosen your snob ass a bit first, huh?”
“Yum.”
Patrons floated a bit closer to them, a pair of young women seemingly zeroing in on Ty. It must have been the eyebrow ring and the whole bad-boy veneer, because it sure as hell couldn’t be his good looks. Or his charm.
Music kicked in gradually while lights dimmed to a pulsating blue-green-blue sequence. Archer peeked upward at the door behind which Joan had disappeared.
The gravity of their situation suddenly crystallized in him.
Why the fuck am I doing this?
He really didn’t care about the “mission”. Not even a little. He was doing it to help Joan. To be with Joan. He didn’t give a shit about saving teenagers from other countries—yeah, so he was a selfish prick on top of a liar. All this crap was going to end right now. Joan would hate him. But she’d hate him anyway, so there!
When this was all over and he was looking at jail time for having intentionally ruined a police raid on a criminal nest, he’d blame the hormones. Better yet, he’d blame his heart.
Because right now, if Archer didn’t break that jerk’s arm in three places, didn’t climb up those stairs and didn’t bust down that door—making a complete moron of himself, possibly even a dead one—his heart would be ripped out of his chest and passed through the meat grinder. Twice.
Joan Blair, prepare to have all your plans ruined.
Damn testosterone.
Damn men.
Damn love.
He barely made two steps before Ty stopped him with a well-aimed punch to the lower back. He should’ve seen that one coming.
Testosterone got in the way, eh, Archer?
Whirling around on the spot, he must have caught Ty by surprise for the thug only cringed when Archer grabbed his shoulder, forced the articulation in a way it hadn’t been meant to go and yanked hard. A loud howl assured him he’d at least broken the guy’s wrist if not more. But unfortunately, Ty didn’t seem to care as he snapped his head up, caught Archer on the chin and sent him floundering back against a group of women, who scattered pretty damn quickly despite the killer heels they wore. They didn’t even spill their colorful drinks!
Ty came at him with fury in his eyes.
A vicious punch aimed for Archer’s throat had him rocking back on his heels. He only managed to stay upright by clenching a fistful of Ty’s jacket. To counter the sudden change in equilibrium, the thug wrapped his hand over Archer’s shirt collar and tried to yank him away. The shirt gave, split clean down the middle right to his belt. Ty’s face registered shock, confusion then white-hot rage when Archer’s wire, clearly visible taped to his chest, dangled impotently.
“You’re a fucking snitch!”
“RHODES!” Archer roared, somehow doubting the cops outside had waited for the safe word before raiding the place. Or so he hoped. Because he had no time to deal with Ty. It was Laramée he wanted.
Like in a slow-motion movie, Ty reached inside his jacket. Archer knew exactly what waited for him if that hand was allowed to come back out intact. Throwing all his weight into it, he tackled Ty, managed to wrap his hand over the prick’s wrist and keep the gun sheathed for the extra second he needed. A one-handed Uchi-mata, an inner-thigh throw. It was one of the most potent judo throws and illegal at championships—the one-handed kind anyway. It was nasty, painful and it worked like a charm.
Jaws locked for the impact to come—but he’d land on top, that was for damn sure—Archer grabbed a fistful of Ty’s jacket near the shoulder, unbalanced him with a brusque yank forward, slipped his leg between the thug’s feet, twisted his hip so he’d face the same way the other guy did. For a split second, he felt Ty tense.
Oh yeah, buddy, it’s gonna hurt.
Archer raised the leg he’d slipped in between Ty’s while simultaneously leaning forward, fist never letting go of the jacket. With as much force as he could put into it, he “rolled” the jerk over his hip, made sure the shaved head was pointing down before using his long reach to dip them both toward the floor. Archer wasn’t as heavy as Ty, but he was long, he was trained and he was pissed. With a snarl and a thunderous gunshot—the sound ripped into Archer’s brain—Ty thudded against the floor, Archer falling on him for a brutal pin.
Before Ty could recuperate, Archer was already on his feet and running for the stairs, the whole while keeping the door behind which Joan had disappeared well in sight. It was all that counted. That and the fear of getting shot in the back by Ty if he managed to get up in time.
Get to Joan.
Fuck everything else.
Chapter Ten
For a crazy second, Joan thought Archer wouldn’t let her leave with Laramée.
Archer, please, let me do my job.
He must have understood her silent message, even if he didn’t agree with it—obviously, judging by the big vein showing on his temple. He looked ready to say something and it wouldn’t be nice. By his side, Ty smirked and seemed to be enjoying himself very much. He was dangerous, that one.
And she was leaving him with Archer, who’d just told her he loved her. He’d looked only slightly more shocked than she’d felt! The notion of a man like him confessing his love, knowing he was being recorded, blew her mind. As soon as this job was over, she’d make sure to investigate this sudden declaration more closely. Maybe even use pink fuzzy handcuffs to torture another such confession out of him.
As she held on to Laramée’s—Claude’s—elbow and climbed to one of the balconies, Joan saw both men enter into a conversation with Archer’s smirk reaching dangerous proportions. It sure resembled a pissing contest to her. Dammit. Then she had to concentrate on the way ahead to keep from rousing Claude’s suspicions. She couldn’t afford that. She had to nail his ass and do it tonight. There wouldn’t be another chance this good. They had no legal way to ground his plane since he’d made s
ure to wipe official footprints tying it to him and could soon lose him again to Europe multinational span and its porous, Byzantine customs. If she failed, he’d fly away in his pricey jet, drink his fancy whisky—they were well informed on his habits—and live the good life in Europe while the Montreal police, already stepping on federal toes, tried to explain the monstrous expenses tied to this little venture. Plus, who knew when anyone would find him a gain? INTERPOL had lucked out once, would they again?
Claude led her to the farthest balcony, opened a door she hadn’t noticed behind a concrete column and held it for her.
A room entirely decorated in shades of red and black greeted her. There must have been a whole herd of bovine killed to furnish the leather in the lounge. And what do you know? A firemen’s pole. So a private performance was in her future?
Great.
And Archer, the man who loved her, was stuck downstairs with a killer.
Worry about yourself, woman, you’re stuck upstairs without a wire, a gun and any way to let the guys know where you are.
Still, that her first instinct had been to worry about Archer told her a lot. She liked him. She liked him a lot. More than that. A sigh left her.
“Don’t be nervous, Susannah,” Claude said, all smiles. “I’m always gentle.”
“Gentle? Oh.”
His smile didn’t reassure her nor did it erase the images his comments had created. Eek. Not that he was ugly, but he was a criminal, a crook, and plus, he wasn’t near as delicious as Archer.
No man was.
“Have you ever had absinthe?”
“Wasn’t that stuff banned?” she couldn’t help the cop from blurting that one out.
Claude shook his head as he would with a headstrong child. She hated the way he made her feel. “It’s no more dangerous than tequila. And much sweeter. I’ll prepare us glasses while you get ready.”
So basically, take your clothes off, woman.
The pig.
“Mmm, a private show?” she replied, trying to sound teasing while she scanned the place for possible weapons. That lamp looked too heavy to wield one-handed but the long bottle holding a single steel flower on that table over there would be perfect. Just like Clue. I accuse Constable Blair, in the private lounge with a flower vase. Ha.
Slowly, hands trembling a bit, she unbuttoned her jacket, let it slide down her shoulders and pool at her feet.
“There,” he proffered a thin, tiny glass the length and width of her middle finger. Kiwi green liquid filled it. A tiny sugar cube bubbled at the bottom. Claude’s blue eyes followed her barely covered form, head to twitching toes then back up again. She held his gaze.
“Merci.” She took the glass, swirled the liquid around. “I thought there was a whole ritual to go with this thing. Absinthe, I mean.”
Claude nodded. “Those who think they know how to enjoy it do that. The whole slotted spoon nonsense. The same kind of artsy idiots who wear Che T-shirts when they’re not even old enough to remember the Eighties.” He shook his head, looking highly disgusted. “With absinthe, the show begins after you drink it, not before. Santé.”
“Santé.”
She dipped her upper lip into the liquid, swore it’d melt right off then coughed as she licked the anis-tasting fuel off. Someone could power a machine with that stuff, she was sure! Man, it was vile.
“Whew,” she said, truly breathless. No faking it there.
Claude grinned wide, drew near. His lips glistened after he licked them. “You’re older than the girls I usually get on amateur night. Second career?”
Yeah,‘cause I’m older than thirteen, you mean? You disgusting swine.
Fear made her nape tingle, just as his roaming gaze did. The penny belt clicked softly when she shifted feet. “Yeah, I’m a late bloomer.”
“And ‘bloom’ is the perfect word for you,” he replied, caressing her jaw with the edge of his glass.
He tipped it slightly so a drop of green liquid teased out and followed the natural crease between her breasts, an act that caused a shiver to spread to her whole body, followed by a heat wave of massive proportions. The gesture could’ve been sexy had he been someone else—say Archer. But right now, all she wanted to do was pour her entire glass down his pants, kick his balls just for good measure and wait for Chantal to get here with the tie-wraps. And oh, she’d put them on extra tight!
Leaning in to her, Claude licked the wet trail, his bright blue eyes rolled up to watch her reaction. From the vantage point, she could see that the guy didn’t brush his tongue as a thin whitish film cracked when he licked her. Too bad, such nice teeth. And major Eww on her scale too, that tongue.
“Claude,” she murmured, taking a step back. “I’m ticklish and I have wicked reflexes.”
And they all involve knee jerks, you pig.
“I love a girl with reflexes. Makes the courting much more fun.” He flicked his jacket buttons with a hand, his gaze never leaving hers, his fingers skilled and very long, and when he rolled a shoulder out of the tailored garment, a fit and firm chest tightened the black shirt.
Switching hands, he took a sip, smiled and removed his jacket altogether. The black shirt highlighted his wavy blond hair, which he’d combed back over his perfectly shaped forehead. A handsome man. But a crook all the same.
And he doesn’t brush his tongue.
Music began to pound increasingly faster beyond the door. The bass resonated in her belly. Joan tried to dip her lips again but it was just too vile and rolled the fluted glass between her fingers while Claude poured himself another.
“It’s an acquired taste,” he remarked, sitting on one of the couches nearest to the pole. He planted his feet wide apart, reached behind the backrest. At once, as if someone had opened a window, the same music that pounded in the club proper filtered into the room.
“I want you to do that pole routine again. For me.”
“Sure,” Joan replied, putting her glass on the low table, a gleaming black lacquer affair. She neared the pole, grabbed it and walked around a couple times. “It’s not my song though.”
He grinned, spread his knees wider. “I’m sure you’ll manage.”
Great, the guy has a hard-on.
The beat was all wrong but Joan began her routine anyway, her eyes half closed so she wouldn’t have to look at Laramée’s dick tenting the pants, his intense eyes fixed on her like blue laser beams. She couldn’t hear her belt clicking but knew he was watching it intently. She thanked Archer again for choosing such a judicious outfit, one that hid her well enough but was also revealing in a subtle, sexy way. Standing with her back to the pole, she grabbed it one-handed and let herself slide down until she crouched on her heels, knees wide and angled toward the door. He could probably still see her golden thong underneath the penny belt but at least he didn’t get a full frontal view.
He snapped up like a broken bowstring. “Stay this way, Susannah.”
Great.
“That’s perfect,” he said through a lascivious smile.
Yeah, maybe for you, but my quads are burning, buddy.
Claude scooted forward on the couch, stretched an arm and poured a generous amount of absinthe between her breasts. She shivered.
“When I’m done with you,” he murmured, smiling. “It’ll be your turn.”
The joys just kept piling.
A sudden fear grabbed her. The guy wanted more than to just watch her do her thing. He wanted to touch and be touched in return. Not only was this not part of the plan, but she couldn’t even do anything about it since Archer had the wire and he wasn’t here but stuck downstairs with an armed thug. She couldn’t call for backup without giving herself away because it’d mean two things—at least two but probably more.
One, she’d jeopardize the mission, possibly lose Laramée.
Two, she’d put Archer in danger.
When Claude leaned over and proceeded to lick her throat, even going down farther, reaching her quivering belly below the sudden
ly too small and revealing “bra”, Joan forced her face into an impassive mask. Each pass of his tongue caused a series of muscle spasms to twitch in her biceps and shoulders. She wanted to punch him bad enough to do it.
Think of the kids he brings into this country. Kids with his dick in their mouths. Eww!
New resolve hardened her muscles, the grip above her head, and Joan waited until the man had had his fun. Oh, but he’d pay later on. He’d pay for all those who couldn’t defend themselves. Girls used up then killed, discarded like garbage. Boys too.
Their gazes met. And Joan knew she was in deep shit.
Blue eyes narrowed dangerously. He straightened. “Who are you?”
And as Murphy’s Law would have it, two things happened that weren’t supposed to. Bad things.
One, a gunshot ripped the air beyond the door. And two, the door burst open and in charged that young man, the Russian according to Archer, she’d noticed earlier during the audition. A vicious-looking knife was tucked in his right hand.
“You should have stayed on your side of the street,” he snarled, rushing for Laramée, who’d snapped to his feet.
Then Joan understood. A turf war. Tonight of all times. Great.
“C’est quoi le sacrament de problème—”
He never had time to finish asking, “What the fuck was the problem”. Joan sprang to her feet, shouldered aside the shocked crime lord and barely had time to sidestep the gleaming knife when it sliced past at shoulder height in a vicious arc that ended near her head. A sharp burn licked her neck. Joan didn’t have time to check her injury for the young man retracted his arm and slashed again, this time low and aimed at her.
Shit!
Another burn, this time a bit more intense, lent her the energy she needed. Joan grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted it with all her might, walking into him, his limb still secured in both hands.
And now I’m gonna have to protect the guy I want to arrest. Great.
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